The Stranger Room
by TheLoneTraveler
Summary: John is made of rage still, but the kittens and jam seem to be missing at the moment.


It had been six months since John witnessed Sherlock's death. He could have killed Moriarty for what he had done, if Moriaty's body hadn't been found on the roof of St. Bart's. Day in and day out he would sit in his chair in the flat, wishing for the sounds Sherlock used to make. The clinking of glassware or the sound of a blowtorch as he did experiments. The sound of him padding back and forth staring over John's shoulder and criticizing his writing, the rattle of a newspaper and the noisy sipping of his tea. He even missed the sound of Sherlock's violin playing at all hours of the day and the gunshots from when he was bored. Well, maybe not the gunshots, but everything else he missed. He couldn't stand the silence that fell in the flat when Mrs. Hudson wasn't there checking on him, but he couldn't bring himself to put on music or leave. He hated the silence, but he still found it somewhat comforting at the same time.

In that moment Mrs. Hudson came upstairs and John decided to do something about the death of his best friend. He got out of his chair and grabbed his gun off the desk. "I'm popping out for a bit, Mrs. Hudson. Don't wait up." John was down the stairs and out the door before he could hear a reply. There was one man left responsible for Sherlock's death. John wasn't sure that he could call it murder. Sherlock had clearly jumped on his own accord, but Moriarty must have provoked him somehow. There was no way Sherlock would have committed suicide on his own, he didn't have the emotional capacity to feel bad enough to kill himself on purpose, that was one thing John knew about Sherlock. John hailed a taxi and got in, gun hidden carefully in his jacket pocket. "Diogenes Club, please."

Suddenly a sense of calm rushed over John. He hadn't felt this at ease since he killed that cabbie a few years back. In what felt like no time he was at the Diogenes Club. He saw Mycroft sitting in the lounge, reading a paper. John walked towards him and Mycroft looked up before he was even halfway across the room. John stopped and nodded his head in the direction of the Stranger Room. Mycroft understood his meaning. He folded his newspaper up and stood. He walked past John and John followed him into the Stranger Room.

"Is there something you wish to speak to me about, John?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." John pulled out his pistol and pointed it at Mycroft. Mycroft wasn't quite sure how to react, so he put his hands up.

"John, what's the meaning of this?"

"You killed him. You killed Sherlock."

"I assure you John, I did noth-"

"No! Shut up! Just shut up." John's emotions were starting to get the better of him. The calmness he had in the cab was gone now, replaced by grief and desperation. "You gave Moriarty the ammunition to destroy Sherlock making you responsible for his death! I would have hunted down and killed Moriarty myself but he is already dead. You're the next best thing." John turned the safety off on the gun.

"John, please don't do this. It won't get you anywhere except in a prison cell."

"Do you think I care? I don't care anymore. I BLOODY WELL DON'T CARE!"

"John, perhaps-"

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP I SAID! I DON'T CARE IF I GO TO PRISON! It doesn't matter anymore! Now that Sherlock is gone, nothing matters really." John cocked his pistol and steadied his gone with both hands.

"John, stop." A lean figure rose from the chair facing the fireplace. John's eyes went wide and he slowly lowered the gun. His legs crumpled beneath him and he discarded the gun on the floor next to him. Mycroft lowered his hands in relief and left the two to be alone. John propped himself up on his hands and knees, breathing hard and trying not to pass out.

Sherlock walked around the chair and kneeled next to John, putting a hand on his shoulder. John shrugged it off. "John, are you okay?" John looked Sherlock in the eye and punched him in the face, knocking Sherlock into the chair.

"You were dead. YOU WERE DEAD! NOW YOU ARE ASKING ME IF I'M OKAY! You were dead, Sherlock! I saw you jump! I-I felt your pulse. You were dead." John's voice trailed off and tears started to form in his eyes. By then Sherlock had recovered from the blow and was next to John again.

Sherlock put his hand on John's shoulder again. "John, I'm sorry." John tackled Sherlock, knocking him on his back, and hugged him with all his might.

"I missed you, Sherlock. I missed you." John softly cried into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock put his arms around John and hugged him as well. He could feel John's body tremble from the crying and a strange emotion washed over him. What was it? Guilt? Sadness? Regret? A combination of the three? Whatever it was, it was tearing a hole in his chest. Sherlock tightened his arms around John as tears started to fall from his own eyes. After a long time they both eventually stopped crying and picked themselves up off the floor.

"Should we go back to the flat now?" Sherlock picked up John's gun, disengaged it, and turned the safety back on.

"Yeah, but know you are getting hell when we get home."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you." Sherlock smiled. He was finally reunited with John again.

* * *

I hope you liked it. Reviews are always wonderful. And I hope you check out my other stories. BBC Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. I do not own any of the characters, nor am I making any profit from this.


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